


Glubbing Computer!

by GrimmReader



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimmReader/pseuds/GrimmReader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eridan buys a computer out of his league and enlists the help of a nearby geek squad to aid him in taming his electronic foe. The problem is, he was supposed to only need help the one time, BUT IT KEEPS HAPPENING!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fucking  Technology

**Author's Note:**

> Fffhaha, I literally just thought of this a few hours ago. Didn't mean to make it a chapter thing, but there you go. Eridan is just so cuddly. So, this'll be like my stress relief ball thing, I'll work on this when I get stuck on the other ones!!!
> 
> And yeah, there will be mucho Erisol cuddles in the future. I have yet to write a single explicit/and/or/sexy anything ever, and I feel like this will be the one that I just shoot and it happens. My other stories will get there eventually, but I don't plan on this one being very long. So, if when it DOES happen, don't be too surprised if it royally sucks mega balls. And not in the good way.

"Cod-fucking dammit! Stupid ass piece of ship!" You huff and thump your fist down on your poor desk for what must be the fourth time in the past 15 minutes, but this time it's followed quickly by your forehead, falling with a clattered thunk down on to the crap keyboard of your malfunctioning computer. Cod-fucking dammit indeed. 

The monitor starts to beep angrily, offended that your head is holding down the shift button or some such worthless nonsense. You growl and drag your limp noodle body up just to make it shut the fuck up. You haphazardly tuck your cheek into your carefully tended but still calloused palm, your elbow sprawling out across the limited space surrounding your  "high-tech" worthless piece of shit computer, and glower menacingly through your specs at the blue screen. Puffing the air out of your cheeks in a drawn out sigh that pulls at your nearly violet tinted lips and exposes your freaky-ass larger than normal incisors, your eyes slide over to the mangled pamphlet you had discarded about five seconds after opening the damn box that had contained this fucked up horrorware, finding it partially hanging off the arm of the classy but uncomfortable as hell couch lounging on the other side of the room facing away from you towards the tv. You squint hard at it, hoping against all odds that your obviously superior intellect can force it to come to you. 

Float damn you. I command thee. Fly motherfucker.

You glare at it for quite awhile, which is not really that surprising. You tend to get easily carried away with being superior after all. After the pamphlet has established that no way in hell is it going to get off its lazy ass and come assist you on its own, you decide, hell, you needed to get up to capture the elusive ass cellular device anyway, and drag your fine pin-striped ass out of the comfort of your wheely-rolly-leather chair (hell if you knew what the fuck it's called) to get it. 

You swipe at the pamphlet, tossing your long-ass scarf over your shoulder and out of the way with your other hand as you begin to wonder where the last time you saw the phone was.

You stand in the middle of your sharply but sparsely decorated apartment thoughtfully, wielding the now rolled up stack of papers in one hand and tapping it against your chin. You'd think this would call for your other hand to be placed sophisticatedly on your hip, but you didn't actually think of that and to do it now would be kind of stupid even if you're the only one here and so you leave it hanging like a lazy motherfucker by your side. You turn around in a slow circle, squinting at your surroundings.

Everything's some shade of purple or blue (it's supposed to be "calming", and shit, it's your favorite colors we're talking about here, of course its gonna be fucking violet bitch) except for the white of the kitchenette counters tucked away to the side of the apartment and the few doors that lead off into your bedroom, the hall, and the bathroom. You stop and stare at a particularly disturbing picture of some sort of squid thing an old high school fling had given to you way back when, and you get distracted, trying to decide whether you actually hung that up on your wall or she somehow infiltrated your apartment and put it up just to fuck with you.

She does that sometimes. Cause you actually still sorta talk to her. And stuff. Shit. Moving on.

Your gogdamn phone is yellow for glubsake. How hard should it be to find in this sea of blue?! Your bare heel pivots a couple more inches on the carpet, dark eyes scanning the little glass coffee table, the couch, the armchair, the-ah. Found the little fucker.

You stomp gracefully over to the tv set and get down on your knees, reaching a hand blindly under the thing that holds it up. If anyone ever asked you about anything, you'd bet there'd be a one in two chances you have no idea what the hell it's called. This, is the tv holder-upper-thingy. And right now, it is hiding your fucking phone under its lard ass.

After scrabbling in the carpet with your nails for a few moments, you manage to grab something solid and wrench it out into the open, sitting back on your heels to observe your hard won prize. You stare at it for a moment, basking in the glory that is you, you are the best finder person EVER. 

...Motherfucker.

After chucking the goddamn tv remote across the room, you shove your hand under the set again and manage to actually grab the phone this time. Ass.

You find a spot to sit on your uncomfy couch, smoothing out the paper and melting slightly into your seat. Your eyes gloss over the worthless ramblings on the page, figuring if your going to get help at all with this stupid device you might as go all the way. No room for half-ass shit in this house. 

You finally manage to find the tiny print on the back of the pamphlet, and it actually looks handwritten. You move to press the according buttons on your phone, but pause. Are you really willing to stoop that low to get your computer working? You turn to look over the back of your couch at the beast. It glows ominously back at you.

You punch in the fucking numbers and hold the phone up to your ear. The dial tone whines like a bitch, and you almost hang up, but then someone answers.

"This is Geek Squad services, how may we help you?"

"Uh, yeah," you begin confidently. "My glubbing computer wwon't start up correctly." you glance once more at the horror terror making eyes at you from across the room. "It's stuck on this...blue screen. Annit makes some fucking wweird noises wwhenever I type anythin' innit. Ya think ya could just send someone over ta look at it?"

After seducing the lady on the phone with your badassery, you give her your address and she says goodbye, assuring you that someone will show up eventually to tame the wild beast that is your electronic demon device.

Dropping the phone wherever, you decide it wouldn't hurt to just go get coffee or something. These kinds of services weren't known for their promptness anyway. So you slip on your shoes, grab your bag (it's not a purse asshole) and leave your apartment to go to the shop across the street. It's not like the guy was going to show up in five minutes, and all this stress, you deserve some fucking coffee dammit.


	2. Thut the Fuck up Ath-hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summmmmmary.  
> Ok, yeah, I think it's short enough that adding a summary would be painfully redundant. So. No summary for you.

Fuck. Coffee. Good Lordy. Sweet jegus. This was fabulous. Almost good enough to make up for that douche working the counter. Almost.

Your fingers gently curl around the hot liquid receptacle, and you lift it once more to sip at the sweetened ambrosia, lounging in the cold iron work chair placed outside the shop facing the street. You feel deep pity (Not that kind. Totally platonic asswipe. Sheesh.) for the saps who drink their coffee black. Bluaghk. Gross.

You shift your weight in the slightly uncomfortable seat, accidentally kicking the tiny table in front of you. Shit. That hurt. Dammit. 

After several long moments of hissing and taking healing sips of your steaming beverage, you gain enough control of yourself to take notice of your watch nestled nicely against the inside of your wrist. Oh. Snap. It's been an hour and a half. That fucking douchebag at the fucking counter! If he hadn't been yelling at all of the customers before you and actually bothered to take their orders then this wouldn't have happened! Shit!

Panicking, you lurch out of the chair, balancing your coffee to avoid any messy spills, and dart towards the crosswalk. "Gaaaaah! Comeoncomeoncomeon," you jump from one foot to the other, your scarf fluttering frantically around you, by the stupid little sign that was leering smugly down at you telling you that if you tried to cross the street now your ass is pavement. You make some more weird noises, attracting a couple of looks from other pedestrians and a hearty shout from inside the coffee shop behind you.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT FUCKASS DOING IN FRONT OF MY STORE. HOLY GRUBMUNCHING SHIT. HEY YOU! FUCKASS! HEY!"

You blatantly ignore the insufferable douchebag, scrambling across the street as soon as the little sign flickered, allowing you to pass. 

Shitshitshitshit, the guy probably showed up, waited for you to answer the gogdamn door, got pissed, and left. Shit. You needed that fucking computer glubbing fixed dammit. You did NOT want to tangle with the phone lady again. That would just be embarrassing.

In your hurry, you inadvertently knock over a bike by the stair case landing that wasn't there before. This doesn't seem to bother you very much because after you detangle yourself from it you dart up the stairs without righting it. No time for elevators, there is only stairs now.

This does not work out as well as you'd hoped. You are NOT equipped for stair marathons. 

You crawl up the last steps before realizing that if the guy was gone why the hell are you glubbing your ass off trying to get back to your fucking apartment when it wouldn't make a difference either way. Heaving a dramatic sigh cut short by your lack of breath, you attempt to fix your posture, holding the coffee receptacle up a little higher (there was no way you were going to drop your fucking coffee) and stroll the last few steps down the hall to your door.

There's no note or anything tacked on it, so you reach for the door knob and turn, lightly pushing it open and stepping into your abode. 

You glance around suspiciously for some reason, gaining back enough breath to take a sip of your sugar'd joe before closing the door shut behind you with your other hand. You drop your bag off on the little table by the door and frown. You hear a sharp clacking sound that wasn't there before, and then a soft sniffle. Well. Now you know why you were so damn suspicious! Your instincts are fuck all amazing.

Your tense, eyes squinting dramatically as you glance around your living room. Oh. The computer. Of course you knew that noise was coming from the computer. What else made clicking sounds and sniffle....d... Hmm.

"Wwho the ever lubbing fuck are ya supposed to be? Howw'd ya get in'ta my apartment?" 

The slouched over figure sitting at your desk tapping away at your...oh. But how did he get in? Anyways, he didn't even bother swiveling around to reply.

"I'm the thorry ath who wath thent to fix your thorry ath problemth."

The figure sniffled again, slowing down for a moment in his rapid fire computing to actually look over his shoulder to give you a dark look over his glasses, eyebrows raised slightly and a tiny smug smirk pulling at his thin lips before turning back to the demon beast.

"And your door wath unlocked by the way. I athumed that meant you were exthpecting me. Or at leathst at home."

You open your mouth to give the lispy ass what for, but he chooses that moment to lean back and stretch, causing his loose black tee to wrinkle across his back and some joints to pop satisfyingly. He sighs and pushes away from the desk, running a hand through his softly disheveled brown-black hair before standing up and leaning over slightly to brush off his jeans with both hands. 

Hmm. Well. That view was certainly unexpected. 

You manage to pull your jaw back into place before he turns around, one hand tucking into his front pocket and the other adjusting his glasses, his head tilted at a downward angle so he wouldn't have to lift his arm all the way up. This guy.  You were having a hard time figuring out if this prick (you don't know why, but you think he's a dick) knew he was outrageously attractive in a quiet, smoldery-spec guy kind of way, or if he was just being an ass.

"Did you even read the inthstructionth? There wath nothing wrong with your thoftware or your hard drive." 

You recover enough to take a haughty sip of your depleting courage, idly carding a hand through your own black and purple (shut the fuck up its natural ok) hair before dropping your coffee hand to your side and responding.

"I don't understand dweeb-inese. The instructions wwere rubbish. All I did wwas turn the fucking thing on, and it spazzed on me. Did ya get it ta wwork?"

He stares at you oddly for a moment, his other hand joining the one already in a pocket. 

"Dweeb-ineethe. Really. No wonder there wath nothing wrong with your computer, you didn't even do anything. You didn't thet it up, that'th what wath wrong."

You brandish your coffee as if it might shield you from his snarky words. 

"I didn't call your ass dowwn here ta mock me, did you fix it or not?"

Damn this guy was getting on your nerves, worse than when he was just some creeper in your apartment. His look intensified into a glare edged with slight disbelief. Shit. You just noticed his eyes are different colors. One is blue. Daaaaamn.

"How the fuck am I thuppothed to fixth thomething that'th not fucking broken dumbath."

Oop. Ok, he's kinda cute when he's mad. But that doesn't matter, you have something called your dignity/pride to salvage and defend. Which you were getting to when the guy whips a hand out of his pocket to wave it dismissively at you.

"Fuck it, never mind. There'th nothing wrong with your computer. Jutht rethtart it and it thould work jutht fine."

He brushed his hair out of his eyes, dammit, that was distracting, and made to move towards the door. You huff a bit, flustered and more irate than your ogling shows.

"Wwhat the fuck man?! I don't knoww howw to do this shit!"

He ignores you and continues to the door, his long thin fingers barely touching the knob, his shoulder brushing it open with barely a touch and then he's gone. 

You growl inwardly for a moment, turning to your computer. The blue screen is still there. Frustrated, you drop into the chair and flick the restart button. This better work dammit.

The screen flickers and you hear a weird rumbling noise. Oh shit. You back up out of the chair and dive over the back of the couch, landing like a sack of potatoes on the other side just as your door crashes open. Confused, you crawl on to the couch and peer over the top at the door, where grumpy-pants is standing, his arm outstretched where he'd slammed the door open. He catches sight of you and makes a weird noise, like a cross between a hiss and a wild cat.

"Are you the thad motherfucker who tothed my bike around?!"

Oh. Well. Hmm.


End file.
